After the bomb in Oslo, no immediate nationwide alert was sent out. A nationwide alert is issued to communicate information considered important to all the police districts in the country. When such an alert goes out, all police stations follow a standard procedure. In Asker and Bærum, this would have involved setting up a police roadblock on the E16 at Sollihøgda, towards which Anders Behring Breivik was currently heading.
When the duty manager at Kripos, the National Criminal Investigation Service, contacted the chief of operations of the Oslo police to ask if they could help in any way, the exchange ran as follows:
Oslo: Well, er, you could, that is, it might be interesting to maybe issue a warning, send out a national warning.
Kripos: Yes. What do you want it to say?
Oslo: No, that is, well it’s interesting now because a van was spotted here, uh-huh. A small grey delivery van. VH 24605. So if you could send out, that is, a national warning that there’s been an attack here, and then that the police districts are bearing it in mind.
Kripos: The van?
Oslo: Yes, and any other activity, because it could be interesting on routes to border crossings. Mmm, maybe alert the customs service, which is at most of the borders at least.
The conversation ended without the chief of operations clarifying that the van could be the vehicle of a potential perpetrator, that the individual driving it had been observed at the scene, and that he was wearing a police uniform and was armed.
The information provided by witnesses was not read out over any general communication wavelength, nor was it passed on to the media so that alerts could go out on radio and television. The Public Roads Authority in Oslo, which has a comprehensive network of cameras, was not alerted either. Despite the fact that the government quarter – Norway’s most important seat of power – had been blown to smithereens by a bomb, the terror-response plan was not implemented.
Nobody pressed the big button.
The resources available were not exploited.
Meanwhile, Breivik drove calmly on towards Sollihøgda. He kept to the speed limit. He did not want to overtake anyone, or be overtaken. He had to avoid anyone who might look into the van and think there was something not quite right about him.
At 16.16 he passed Sollihøgda. Down to his left lay the Tyrifjord.
Soon, he would be able to see Utøya.
* * *
You had to put your best people in defence.
And these last few summers on Utøya, Simon had been the workhorse of the Troms football team. Among the activists he was the fittest and most experienced team player; he was good at countering attacks, getting the ball and kicking it away up the pitch. He was also the one who got most annoyed with the slowcoaches. ‘Get a move on!’ or ‘Run faster’ he would shout. He did not approve of halfhearted efforts – that was no fun. You were here to win.
Brage and Geir Kåre played in the midfield, while Viljar made an impressive forward. He ran fast and scored the most goals. Once, late at night after a long party, he and Simon argued about who was actually fastest, and they decided to race each other across the kilometre length of the Tromsø Bridge. Ready, steady, go! They ran, but admitted defeat after a few hundred metres. The effects of the party won out in the end.
They were happy to live not knowing who was fastest, and now Viljar had a hat-trick to celebrate – three goals in the same match.
Gunnar Linaker reigned supreme in goal. The Troms county secretary was a big, burly type who weighed over a hundred kilos but he threw himself around in all directions. He was so muddy after the match that Mari had to hose him down. He had also strained his groin, and rang a medical student friend in Tromsø. ‘You’ll have to lie down and rest until it stops hurting,’ the friend advised. Not a chance. Troms had won all its matches so far and was the first team to qualify for the semi-finals. He would be playing in spite of the pain. They were going to win the tournament this year!
Anders Kristiansen was nowhere to be seen during the matches, not even as a spectator and cheerleader. They could have done with his enthusiasm and loud voice, but he had other duties to perform and was busy preparing the political programme. The eighteen-year-old had arrived at the island a few days before the others to attend a training course for the election campaign that was to start after the holidays. Anders was on the Labour Party list for the local council elections in Bardu and was hoping to win a seat in September. From late summer he was going to travel round to schools all over Troms to take part in election debates and it was important to polish up his arguments and his style. Debating was what he most enjoyed. He had recordings of several parliamentary debates that had been shown on TV, including those on the data storage directive and the postal services directive, and he made a careful study of how the various representatives put over their points, what worked and what did not, how you could defeat your opponent, ridicule him, render him harmless or undermine his credibility. How he was looking forward to the election campaign!
After the football match there were political seminars. They could choose between such topics as ‘My dear brother in dark blue – the experience of Conservative government in Sweden’ or ‘Violence against women and children’ or an update on climate negotiations.
Mari and Simon opted for something they knew nothing about, ‘Western Sahara – Africa’s last colony’. They learned about the Sahrawis’ fight against the Moroccan occupation of their land while they were exiled to the most inhospitable desert areas, cut off by a wall over two thousand kilometres in length, in a place where over a million landmines maimed people and cattle every year. Freedom of expression was limited and there were disappearances and arbitrary imprisonments.
‘We’ve got to get to work on this,’ Mari whispered to Simon.
As the seminar was drawing to a close, disquiet spread through the room. Conversations were conducted in loud whispers while the human rights activist from Western Sahara carried on speaking. A boy stood up and interrupted the Sahrawi to say that there had been a big explosion in Oslo. He referred to his iPhone and what he had read on the internet. Many were frightened; a number of the camp participants from the Oslo area had parents who worked in or near the government quarter.
The seminar was abruptly ended by a boy who came to summon everyone to a meeting. It was to be held in the main hall, where they were now, so Mari and Simon stayed in their places. At the meeting, AUF leader Eskil Pedersen gave them the latest information on the explosion. But it was nothing more than they could read for themselves on their iPhones.
Monica Bøsei, a slight woman in her mid-forties, came onto the stage. ‘Those who want to ring their parents can do so. Anyone who wants to talk can come and see us, we’re here for you,’ she said. Monica had been running the island on a day-to-day basis for twenty years, promoting the ideas of the labour movement and adding a few of her own. She had handled its finances, put down mousetraps and seen to the upkeep of the buildings. When she had been working there for a few years, they advertised for a caretaker. Jon Olsen, an AUF member her own age, got the job. And Monica. They fell in love, moved in together and had two daughters. When the AUF bought the MS Thorbjørn to use as a ferry, Jon became its captain.
This was due to be Monica’s last summer on the island. Mother Utøya, as she was known, had got a job as director of the Maritime Museum and wanted to hand the baton over to somebody else. But for now she was here to take care of anxious young people. ‘This evening we’ll light all the barbecues and you can have as many sausages as you want,’ she proposed, telling them Utøya was a long way from Oslo and that it was the safest place for them rightnow.
Out of respect for the victims in the government quarter, the Friday disco was cancelled, and because of the rain the football tournament was postponed. There was no pitch left to play on. Monica recommended that the leaders of the county delegations gathered up their groups to talk through what had happened.
Simon and Mari went out together and headed for
the tents.
‘We’re not safe here,’ said Simon.
‘What?’ exclaimed Mari.
‘Well, if this is an attack on the Labour Party…’ he said.
‘Now you just shut up!’ Mari declared.
‘I’m only saying that it’s no coincidence they went for the government quarter. That means this is an attack on the Labour Party, and we’re part of the Labour Party…’
They came across Viljar. And Simon did not shut up.
‘If this is political, Viljar, and against the government, we’re not safe here either.’
Viljar had just been talking to his mother and was wondering what to tell his younger brother Torje. During Gro’s talk the fourteen-year-old had collapsed from lack of sleep after his all-night session followed by the football tournament. Now he and Johannes were asleep in their tent. Viljar and his mother had agreed it was best not to wake him until after the meeting, and then to give him a toned-down version. It must be time to get him up now.
Up in the Troms camp, Mari was delegating tasks. She set some of the activists to buttering bread and making up fruit squash. She went round pouring the sweet drink into plastic cups. When you’ve had bad news, your blood sugar levels fall, she reasoned. So it was important for them to have a bite to eat now.
It was wet, grey and mucky. The whole campsite had turned into a huge pool of mud. But soon they were all sitting round on whatever they could find in the way of dry camping stools, boxes and tree stumps.
‘Take big breaths, stay calm,’ Mari told herself. But it was beyond her.
* * *
Anders Behring Breivik was now driving through Nordre Buskerud, the police district to which Utøya belonged. In Hønefoss police station no one had yet received any instructions to look out for a silver-grey delivery van with a particular number plate.
He drove along the winding road from Sollihøgda, looking down at the Tyrifjord. There was an arrow pointing down the narrow road to the left. The sign said Utøya. Not that the driver needed the sign; the car’s GPS had already told him this was the place to turn. Just before half past four, the van left the highway.
He did not want to drive down to the jetty yet, so he pulled into a small clearing a little way above it. This was how he had planned it; if he arrived in good time for the next crossing, he would stop in a place where he could be seen neither from the road nor from the jetty. The boat ran on the hour. He had checked the timetable on the AUF web pages, and the next boat was not until five.
He drank a little water and a Red Bull, and got out of the car to pee. The drawback with ECA was that it made you want to go. The steroids did not give you a high in themselves, but they thinned the blood so your heart got more oxygen. They helped you concentrate and speeded up your perception. Your visual skills were enhanced and your reaction times were shorter.
But now he had to wait, and that did not suit him.
While he was waiting, Kripos was formulating a nationwide alert about a potential perpetrator. Forty minutes after the vague phone conversation with the joint operations centre in Oslo, the one in which it was said that ‘It might be interesting to maybe issue a warning’, the alarm was sounded. It was one hour and eighteen minutes since the explosion, and one hour and nine minutes since Andreas Olsen had rung in to tip them off about the uniformed man with a pistol, and the number plate of his car.
Nationwide Alert – Explosion Potential Bomb(s) in Central Oslo
All units requested to be on the alert for a small grey van, possible reg. 24605. As of now unknown relationship between explosion and vehicle, but if it is located, alert Desk or Oslo pending further instructions. Units requested to exercise relative caution in approaching the vehicle.
Sincerely, Kripos Desk.
It was 16.43. There was nothing in the wording to indicate that the driver of this van, for which Kripos had incidentally omitted the initial letter code of the registration number, had been observed in a guard’s or police uniform. What was more, only very few police stations actually received the alert. Many did not have the relevant communication equipment switched on, or the alarm signal was wrongly set.
This certainly applied to Nordre Buskerud police district, where Breivik was now located. The computer that was able to receive alarms was some distance from the three desks in general use. When the PC was not being used, its screen went dark. In order to check whether there had been any alarm calls, one had to go into Shared Files > Alarms > and then select the police district from the list of all the districts in the country. Only then could one see if any alerts had come into the police station.
Nobody did that at Hønefoss police station in Nordre Buskerud.
So, while the alarm was going out from Oslo and not being received by the police station a few kilometres away, the man with the pistol sat waiting in the van. The fjord was grey and sombre. The rain lashed the surface of the water. No boat arrived.
It would have to be here soon if it was to leave at five.
* * *
Simon was worried and wanted to ring home, but his phone needed charging. Julie Bremnes lent him hers. As the daughter of the musician and songwriter Lars Bremnes, she could usually never get anywhere near Anders, Simon and Viljar without the trio starting to squawk her father’s lyrics: Oh, if I could write in the heavens, yours is the name I would write!
But not this time. At five to five, Simon rang his father in Salangen, where he was sitting watching the news with Håvard.
‘Dad, what’s the latest?’
‘They say it’s a bomb. One person confirmed dead so far,’ answered Gunnar, and described the pictures he could see on the TV screen. ‘They still don’t know, Simon, it’s just speculation.’
‘It’s important for us to get as much concrete information as we can. Ring me if you find out any more, then.’
‘Yes I will,’ answered Gunnar. ‘All the best, then!’
Simon had sounded stressed. Gunnar settled back into his seat. Tone was sitting beside him, knitting.
At the same time, just across the water from their son, Breivik decided to drive down to the jetty to find out what had happened to the boat. He drove slowly down the steep dirt track to the landing stage. There were a few youngsters with rucksacks standing about. They watched him curiously as he parked. A young blond man with a security vest and a walkie-talkie came over to him. Breivik got out of the car and waved him away. He did not want the boy to come any closer.
‘Routine check because of the bomb in the government quarter,’ he told the young guard. ‘Officers are being posted at various locations.’ He paused. ‘To make sure nothing more happens.’
The guard was a bit surprised when he heard this. It was strange for an armed police officer in uniform to arrive unaccompanied in a civilian vehicle. But there was probably a shortage of police cars in a situation like this, he reasoned.
‘Where’s the boat?’ Breivik asked the AUF guard.
‘Cancelled because of the explosion,’ replied the nineteen-year-old.
The policeman asked him to call the boat over. ‘There are two more men on their way from the security service,’ he said, but he stressed that he wanted to get over as quickly as possible himself, to secure the area. The boy rang over to the island.
There was a car at the landing stage with its windows down and the news blaring out at high volume. Some teenagers stood hunched over as they tried to keep their mobiles out of the rain. They were making calls, sending texts and checking the internet on their iPhones. They all knew someone in Oslo, and most of them had been on the bus on their way to the island when the bomb went off. They were talking among themselves about who could be behind the attack. Al-Qaida seemed the likeliest candidate.
The young people had registered with the guards on the landing stage and their bags had been searched for alcohol and drugs – standard procedure at the summer camps. ‘I’ve just got to check you haven’t got any sawn-off shotguns or revolvers with you,’ the volunteer gua
rd from Norwegian People’s Aid had said to them in an attempt to lighten the mood.
MS Thorbjørn put out from the jetty on Utøya and chugged towards the mainland. The uniformed man stood waiting by his van at the far side of the parking area. The AUF guard could see he was sorting out something in a case.
The rain was easing off as the captain steered towards the quay. His vessel was a military landing craft built back in the 1940s and used by Swedish navy commandos for a generation. The AUF had bought the boat cheaply fifteen years earlier. The hull, made of 10mm steel, was painted red to the waterline, and black up the sides. The windows of the wheelhouse were steaming up. The Norwegian flag on its roof hung wet and heavy.
Once he reached the mainland, the skipper lowered the front of the boat and the prow became a gangway. Monica Bøsei hurried ashore to meet the policeman on the landing stage.
‘Why haven’t we been informed of this?’ she asked in some agitation.
‘It’s chaos in Oslo at the moment,’ the policeman replied.
‘Fine,’ said Monica. She turned back to the boat, while the policeman went over to his van. He had to bring some equipment over, he had told her.
He came back dragging a heavy black case. He was holding a rifle. Monica approached him again. ‘You can’t bring that rifle onto the island. You’ll frighten everybody,’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ll have to keep it hidden, at least.’
This time it was the policeman who said ‘Fine.’
He went back to his vehicle for something to cover the rifle. In the front seat he had the Benelli shotgun in a black bin liner. He took the powerful weapon out of the bag and left it lying there uncovered. He decided he was not going to need the shotgun after all.
The heavy plastic case on wheels gouged deep grooves in the gravel on its way to the boat. At the gangway, the policeman see-sawed it on board. The rifle was still only half covered, and Monica found another plastic bag in the wheelhouse to cover the stock.
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